


Breathe Easy for a While

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Coming In Pants, Consensual Underage Sex, Developing Relationship, Dry Humping, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, M/M, Making Out, Pining, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-IT (2017), Smut 4 Smut 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:28:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23603821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: It's Eddie's seventeenth birthday, and Richie's being apal.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 16
Kudos: 307
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	Breathe Easy for a While

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darlingargents](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingargents/gifts).



> Title from "Love Song" by Sara Bareilles.
> 
> ETA 04/26/2020: [my tumblr](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/)

On Wednesday Eddie makes him promise five times in a row: Friday, after school lets out, an entire day, twenty-four hours, just for Eddie's seventeenth. A day just for him and him only. Richie pinky-promised and everything that morning, but Eddie keeps asking him for the words throughout the day anyway, until they're on nearly half a dozen. And Richie, _well_ —he's helpless not to give in, not to repeat himself and give him the words, _I promise, just for you_.

Now, hours later, seemingly satisfied, Eddie launches into another tirade on the state of Richie's pick-up and his fingernail beds and his everything falling short of anything resembling a standard of hygiene, line crackling on the fricatives in Eddie's overexcited words. Richie almost doesn't even mind anymore, smiling safely inside the four walls of his bedroom. Everything is somehow safer where Eddie is concerned when they're, the both of them, in their own houses, in their own beds, streets apart, windows safely closed against the night.

Over the telephone line, Richie hums, and grinds against his own palm absently, trying to ignore the way his dick is getting hard but needing to either adjust himself or unbutton, one or the other but never both. His hips lift up from the mattress all on their own and his thumb rubs beneath his cockhead through his clothes, two layers of fabric a mediocre chastity belt but good enough for government work.

He's probably not supposed to make himself come on the phone with his best friend. Just from his best friend's voice. He bites his lip hard enough to break the surface while Eddie goes on and on, voice electrified, happy as a pig in mud from so very little—a promise of a boring afternoon palling around with the six of them. He cups his balls once through his jeans, then lets himself go and pretends he's not zoning out thinking about Eddie's own dick and whether he ever gets as hard as Richie does— _god!_ —nearly all the time now.

*

Mrs Kaspbrak got called away by a cousin of theirs in Augusta, Eddie explains to the Losers at lunch on Tuesday, which is when they devised their plan of semi-kidnapping Eddie for his birthday that Friday, seeing as his mom is going to be leaving early in the day anyway and staying until Sunday. A perfect opportunity for a perfect set-up for the perfect birthday. Lucky as a bad penny on the sidewalk that it falls on a Friday this year.

He's got chores, what little Sonia allows him to do on his own, and, besides, there's just so much tempting fate Eddie's got in him, so they make one more promise that he'll be back in one piece by Saturday afternoon, the six of them pointedly staring at Richie as they do. He can't be bothered getting offended when he's already planning how to snatch Eddie away for after. For later. A real best friend birthday. The real fucking thing, just the two of them, never mind his shorts get tight at the very thought of it, all that time _alone_ however innocently.

*

The cake is one hundred percent Stan's idea and execution. Mike helps, supposedly.

Except for toast, the other four are worthless in the kitchen, and no one deserves a birthday cake made out of toast, which is essentially bread, much less Eddie, who's good and perfect and deserving of only the best of all the things. Richie might just be a little tipsy on the hard cider Big Bill sneaks them, but he stands by this sentiment. _Loudly_. In every room of the downstairs of Sonia's house. For all to hear, even though they're all in the living room to begin with, to which he returns promptly following his trek from room to room.

To his left, Beverly laughs until she's snorting, so it's possible he may have said all of that about Eddie a few times too many, but then Stan joins in the laughter, which must mean he didn't pull a Tozier too badly. Either that, or Stan's finally admitting Richie's a funny guy. But it's neither. Ben's only cracking jokes, seated as he is on the coffee table in front of Sonia's living room couch, a state of events which would usually have Eddie fussing and snapping at him to find a proper seat, but the cider went well with the strawberry sponge cake Stan brought, Eddie looking as if he truly indulged for once. He's giggly and flushed, the tops of his cheeks ruddy. Richie should know; he hasn't stopped throwing glances at him for the last hour.

*

Later, they bring out their sleeping bags. Set them in rows with the living room furniture pushed aside and into the walls. Beverly gets Eddie's bed upstairs, never mind he's the birthday boy, never mind Beverly insists she's not really the girly-girl in need of a proper bed. But that's all right, because Richie's sleeping bag ends up next to Eddie's at the edge of the carpet, a few feet away from the rest of the boys, barely private however much it seems as if it's just the two of them with the dark shadows of the Kaspbrak residence for cover.

He sleeps like the dead.

*

"You can't smoke in my mom's kitchen." Eddie crosses his arms over his chest. A muscle in his cheek twitches for just an instant, hilariously much too serious in his baby-blue pyjamas. Birds chirp outside to underline the hilarity of it all.

Cigarette limply hanging from the corner of his mouth, Richie cocks his head and asks, "Isn't it your kitchen, too?" He's not being a dick—this time. Or, well. Maybe just a little, though he's got a valid point here.

September sunshine streams through the curtained windows. Richie isn't so much basking as enjoying the quiet of the morning before the rest of the Losers wake up. Beverly came in earlier to fuss with the coffee pot and snag a cigarette before going outside onto the back porch to enjoy it, but Richie likes the emptiness of a clean kitchen for reasons he can't quite name. Perhaps the notion that his friends are snoring softly in the next room gives him some sort of comfort, though he has an inkling it's not that, not entirely, not even close to it.

After a long, silent moment Eddie finally huffs, and wordlessly pours himself a cup of lukewarm coffee before he walks out with a sniff. Richie never does light up, but the feel of the damp filter hanging from his bottom lip ends up feeling much more comforting than anything else that morning. So much for a best friend birthday.

*

The Losers all leave at around noon.

Richie waves the four of them goodbye at the curve, but he has plans.

Plans which involve sneaking back in.

Well. Knocking on Eddie's door after he's made an appearance at the lunch table and vacuumed the TV room and weeded the back garden and washed up in the kitchen after dinner. His parents can smell a furry, sneaky creature from a mile away, and Richie has little inclination to give them more fodder to figure out something rotten is afoot.

Now, showered squeaky clean and bearing another bottle of Bill's dad's cider, homemade from his sister in Vermont, he knocks on Eddie's front door and impatiently waits around for an ungodly amount of time for it to swing open, his expression carefully set into a casually bored pout, especially crafted to face Eddie's hilariously confused frown. Which is exactly what greets him once the door finally opens trepidatiously.

"I come bearing gifts." If another bottle to share can be called a gift. But Richie's a pal—hard cider and a glossy magazine snugly concealed in his waistband at the back underneath his shirt and the keys to his pick-up parked two blocks away if Eddie wants to go for a ride. It's nine o'clock; they could _go_.

But Eddie doesn't take the bait. Barely loses his frown to invite him inside. Doesn't ask any questions as he leads them upstairs. That is, nothing until his bedroom door swings closed behind Richie, at which point he rounds on him, hands to his hips, frown on his lips.

"What were you thinking?" Eddie admonishes, but Richie can see the corners of his mouth lifting from the side when he turns away, and the spring in his step as he fusses around his bedroom with random objects which don't need fussing with, and the looseness of his shoulders as he draws the curtains.

With the curtains closed, they can lie on Eddie's bed over the covers and Richie can pull out the magazine to show him and Eddie's eyes can threaten to pop out of their sockets as he snaps at Richie to put it away. "I don't care for that junk," he sniffs.

Richie smirks and dangles the bait. "Got anything better?"

But Eddie, disappointingly, doesn't take it. "I don't need anything better." Although he doesn't elaborate, and Richie doesn't ask him to, feeling an annoying flush crawling at the edges of his face.

He teaches him poker instead, cross-legged at the centre of the bed while they pass the bottle back and forth. Eddie's surprisingly good at it, although that might be mostly because Richie's horrible at bluffing.

It's particularly hot for September, even for an evening. They can't open the window widely because the ceiling light is oddy harsh and likely to reveal everything from the street without the drawn curtains shielding Eddie's bedroom from sight, and the bedside lamp is too weak to see the cards by. Eddie gives up on his sweater twenty minutes in. The cider must have something to do with it, too. They only have half of the bottle left, but Eddie passes on the rest in order to bring them chilled bottles of cherry Coke from downstairs, so that by the time Richie's started losing spectacularly he's once more very awake to see it happening.

The thought comes to him unbidden, and he lets it loose as he does every inappropriate thought unlikely to land him in _too much_ trouble. "You deserve to get lucky on your birthday."

This time around, Eddie misunderstands him. Says, "Luck's got nothing to do with it. You're just very bad at this." Smug. Eyes dancing.

"Nonsense!" Richie crows. Lets him have his little misunderstanding, though he regrets it the next moment, this little allowance which spares him more mischief.

But his eyes linger on Eddie's shoulders in the white tee he has underneath his discarded sweater, basically see-through. And the moment of regret passes in favour of warmth dripping down his spine, sudden and only partially wanted.

He gulps, but says it anyway. Another thought which should go unspoken. But not when you're Richie Tozier, it seems.

He croaks out, "You've gotten big." He motions at Eddie's shoulders with careless fingers, his other hand gripping roughly at the cards until the knuckles whiten.

And it's true. His little biceps finally standing out, the summer tan stark against the white of his shirt—ridiculous, in all ways. Eddie, for his part, immediately scoffs, so Richie has to add, "You're looking pretty big." Nonchalant. As if he's barely noticed. As if he doesn't stare _all the fucking time_.

"I mean," and Eddie laughs self-deprecatingly, biting into his lower lip until it flushes a shiny pink Richie's eyes zero in on without any conscious say-so on his brain's part, "I'm not. Not too much."

Sounding breathless and uncool, Richie hurries to chip in, "It's not too much." Eddie doesn't seem to notice the lack of cool, how lame he is around him all of the time in his haste to be the very opposite.

"Yeah, no, I know. Nothing like you lately."

"Hmm," Richie hums. That's debatable; he doesn't comment on it, though. Takes the probably unintentional compliment and runs with it in the confines of his own head, careful not to talk himself into believing it's more than it actually is. That'd be a catastrophe of seismic proportions. It'd go to his head, making him even stupider for Eddie's praise than he already is, for his attention, his eyes on him at all times. Stupid. Pathetic. So uncool he wants to scream.

"Really," Eddie adds with more feeling than the situation warrants. Richie feels his face go obviously hot and red, which he hates in unspeakable ways. Manages to ignore it this time around in favour of focusing on Eddie's suddenly intense expression.

The cider was a couple of hours ago. They haven't touched it since. Which doesn't explain why they're reaching for each other in the stark light of Eddie's bedroom, hovering over the playing cards, making a mess of them when they land on the carpet in a crumpled mess, no longer welcome on Eddie's bed when there's an even bigger mess afoot in the form of their lips smearing together, Richie's tongue clumsily sticking into Eddie's mouth to lick at the backs of his teeth before touching the tip of it to Eddie's own.

He has him on his back way too soon after that, mouths still connected, panting stale breath to each other in an endless loop. Doesn't know what he's doing, what he's going to do once one moment turns into the next, why Eddie is letting him do this to him, _but he is_. Lies on his back just like that, Richie's palm barely pushing at his shoulders, no care in the world as he goes down, pulling Richie along with him. Seventeen, and ready for Richie's hard dick to grind into his through their pants on his bed.

A corner of Richie's brain, probably trained into existence after years and years of friendship with one Eddie Kaspbrak, wonders whether he's going to get yelled at later for having Eddie hard and leaking in his nice jeans, Richie in his street clothes on top of him, unsanitary all the way through, but he figures he's going to gladly welcome it anyway if it gets him Eddie rocking his hips upwards into Richie's downward thrusts as enthusiastically as he currently is.

It's a shock to know for certain Eddie's cock is hard, too, even though the shock of it doesn't come until they're already panting wetly into each other's mouths, Eddie's thighs gripping at his hips, legs thrown over the backs of his. Richie wants to touch it so badly. Wants to play around with the foreskin and lick around the head and swallow his pre-come down. Let him fuck his throat until he gets a mouthful of come to join everything else in his stomach, cider and cherry Coke and leftover sponge cake from that morning they had to finish off completely in order to return Stan's mother's platter.

As it is, they don't get out of their pants at all, merely bump their hips together equally desperately. Richie gets his knees underneath him enough to part Eddie's thighs even farther apart and finally get some leverage going.

They come messily inside their underwear in no time at all, Richie in his ratty weekend clothes and Eddie in his nice jeans, his birthday jeans.

Eddie shivers in Richie's arms afterwards, and he wants to ask him if it's been a good birthday, wants to hear it's the best birthday ever, but he might have to work on that. He might have to peel Eddie out of his clothes and put his mouth on him to make it the best. Just in case. Richie doesn't want any competition on that front.


End file.
